Bentley Little - The Store

Flo took a deep breath. "No, I'm sorry. I overreacted."

The young man placed a familiar hand on her shoulder. "Here at The Store, we have a confidential relationship with our customers. Like priests and lawyers, we do not divulge what is said to us in private. It remains between us and the customer. That is one of the cardinal rules listed in _The Employee's Bible_, and it is why we are able to provide such effective customer service."

Flo was silent.

"So anything you say is between me and you. Period." He replaced the wand vibrator and gestured toward the others on the shelf. "Now, if you're really looking for a muscle relaxer . . ."

"No," she said.

He smiled. "I didn't think so."

She looked at him. He was a nice young man, helpful, friendly, easy to talk to. She felt comfortable with him. She trusted him. "Maybe we should start over," she said. "From the beginning."

He nodded. "Very well." He walked down the aisle, turned, walked back, smiling at her. "May I help you, ma'am?"

"Yes," she said. "I'd like to buy a vibrator."

"As you can see, we have several different models for you to choose from."

"I already know which one I want."

"And which one is that, ma'am?"

"That one there," she said, pointing. "The one that looks like a cock."

2

Holly missed the cafй.

She wasn't the only one, either. A lot of the old regulars seemed to be lost, not knowing what to do with their time now that they didn't have a booth bench or a counter stool to park their butts on.

At least she had a job. As part of the purchase agreement, The Store had promised Williamson that all of the cafй's employees would be kept on. She'd assumed that that meant she'd keep her old position. But The Store had shut down the cafй and had transferred her, the cooks, and the other waitresses to the snack bars in The Store.

No, not snack bars.

Eating establishments.

It just wasn't the same. Aside from the froufrou food and the unfriendly coworkers, the space here was cramped, and she didn't feel comfortable, didn't feel she had room to move around. She also didn't like staring out at shoppers all day long.

And The Store didn't allow tipping.

That was her biggest gripe.

Vernon Thompson had followed her over from the cafй. The Store's espresso bar wasn't quite the same, and the old-timer complained about . . . well, just about everything. But she was there and he was there and at least that provided some sense of continuity, some feeling of home.

His buddy, though, was gone. The Store had done what nothing else could and had split up the friendship. From what she heard, Buck now spent his days on a barstool at the Watering Hole. She wasn't sure what had happened or why -- and she didn't want to pry -- but she knew that Vern missed his pal, and it was sad to see the old man moping alone on one of those tiny plastic chairs, trying to talk to other customers who were usually too rushed and busy to even give him the time of day.

She blamed Williamson. Why did that son of a bitch ever have to sell the cafй?

She patted Vern on the back as she poured him yet another in his endless refills of straight, plain, old-fashioned black coffee, started to pick up the oversized cafй au lait mugs from the empty table next to him, and looked up to see Buck, wearing a cowboy hat and an old longcoat, weaving down the center aisle toward the espresso bar.

She glanced over at Vern. He'd seen, too, and they both shared a glance.

Neither of them were sure if this was good or bad, if Buck was coming here to hang out or cause problems, and they waited, unmoving, as he staggered toward them.

"Vernon!" Buck yelled. "You old peckerheaded son of a bitch! How's it hangin'?"

Shoppers across the aisle and customers in the espresso bar turned to look at him, but Buck paid them no heed.

Vern seemed to be unfazed. "Can't complain," he said. "Why don't you draw up a stool, have a sit down?"

"I will, I will." He turned toward Holly. "Holly! My favorite waitress!

Ain't this just like old home week!"

"Sit down," she told him. "I'll get you some coffee, sober you up. On the house."

"Don't want no coffee!"

"Lower your voice. People're staring."

"Don't care!"

Holly looked at Vern for help.

"Come on," Vern told his friend. "Don't make a damn scene."

"I . . ." Buck blinked, looked confused, then quickly recovered. "I want to see the manager!" he announced.

Holly quickly looked around. "No, you don't, Buck. You're drunk. You either sit down and shut up, or you go home now."

"I demand to see the manager!"

"Is there a problem here?" The short, officious man who suddenly appeared next to Holly looked quizzically at Buck. "Is there something I can do for you, sir?" "Yeah, goddamn it. You can take me to the store manager."

"Certainly."

Holly licked her lips, suddenly feeling nervous. She had never met The Store's manager. As far as she knew, no one had. It was not something that was ever talked about or brought up, but by tacit agreement the manager was never mentioned.

She didn't know why.

Now the fact that Buck was going to be taken to him set off a feeling within her that was almost like panic. "He's drunk!" she said.

The short man turned to face her. She had never seen him before, but the name tag on his suit lapel read MR. WALKER. "I know," he said.

"I want to see the manager!" Buck demanded. "Now!"

"But the fact that he's drunk doesn't mean that he has no right to see the manager."

Buck grinned.

"This way, please. I will take you to Mr. Lamb. He will take you in to see the manager."

Holly watched, coffeepot still in hand, as Buck was led straight down the aisle to a door in the far wall. The door opened wide, she saw a stairway leading up, and then the door closed. High up on the wall, near the ceiling, she saw a series of one-way-mirrored windows that she'd never noticed before.

The manager's office.

She shivered.

"What's going to happen?" Vern asked. His voice was low, quiet, and she realized for the first time that he was scared, too.

That made her even more frightened.

"I don't know," she said.

"Could I have some service here?" a man behind her demanded.

Holly held up her hand. "Just a minute." She put down the coffeepot on Vern's table and, on impulse, started walking down the aisle toward the manager's office. Vern came with her.

They were nearly to the door when it opened and Mr. Walker emerged. He scurried away, into the hardware aisles.

Mr. Lamb, the personnel manager, came out seconds later. He quickly scanned the aisle before him, his gaze locking on Holly's. "Is that your friend who wanted to see the manager?"

She nodded dumbly.

His voice was serious, his words orders, but there seemed to be a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Call the paramedics," he said. "I think he's having a heart attack."

3

"Everybody's family's crazy," Diane said.

Shannon shook her head, sighing. "Not as crazy as mine."

The two of them were walking down the path that led through the forest from Granite Road to The Store parking lot. It was hot, felt like summer already, and Shannon wished they'd stopped off at George's to get a Coke or something before starting off on this trek. She was dying of thirst and the path seemed to be a lot longer than Diane had led her to believe.

But at least it gave them a chance to talk.

"My dad makes us say grace before every meal. Jo's a klepto, my brother's a doper, but my dad thinks that if we thank God for the meat loaf, it'll somehow make up for his poor parenting skills and we'll all turn out to be perfect people."

Shannon laughed.

"It's not funny."